


Ambrosine

by theroomstops



Category: Upstairs Downstairs (2011)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Mentions of Blanche, Mentions of Hallam, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-14 06:29:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19267693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroomstops/pseuds/theroomstops
Summary: A snippet of Agnes and Caspar after the war.





	Ambrosine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LuceInTheSky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuceInTheSky/gifts).



> Happy birthday, V! Since the show won't give you season 3, here's a ficlet just for you. A kiss upon your nose!

“Agnes, Veronica was asking about her blue coat.” Agnes looked up from staring at her knitting needles move in her hands, as she heard his familiar voice booming as he entered the family room. She hid the little project behind the cushion in front of her as her husband looked at her from the doorway.

“No, it’s much too cold for the blue coat.” Her voice sounded shaky, but firm. Fall had set in upon Belgravia, and at 165 Eaton Place winter coats had replaced light summer jackets for big and small people residing there.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing, darling, I’m just… having a rest. As instructed.” Her husband, with his usual kind face and warm smile, walked towards the lounge, bent slightly and dipped his hand behind the cushion, carefully taking her knitting project with him as he stood back up. He looked at her amused, seeming a mix of curious and confused. She played with her rings, pretending to study them carefully as she felt his eyes on her.

“Agnes?” She looked up, slightly apprehensive as she met his eyes with a smile. “Why did you feel like you have to hide your knitting from me?”

“I was not hiding it.” She really was a terrible liar, at least when it came to hiding things from him.

“Come on, tell me the truth.” He walked around the sofa and lifted her feet to slip himself underneath her legs. He gently caressed a stocking-clad leg and pulled her shoes off. She didn’t protest. She no longer cared that she had been taught it wasn’t proper. This was her home, and she would decide what she wore in it.

Agnes settled against the pillow she’d propped behind an aching back, and relaxed into the way his hands massaged her feet. It felt like heaven. “I used to knit when I was expecting Hector. Hallam never understood why I wanted to. He thought it a terrible waste of time when I could just go out and buy something instead. But I enjoy it. It makes me feel closer to them somehow. I knitted a lot of things after we first married, hoping, as everyone did, to have someone to wear them soon. We left them all behind, of course, when we moved back here, it felt all too painful to bring them along. Such hopes and dreams attached to every piece. So many jackets and little outfits never worn, except for in my imagination.”

“Honey, you never have to hide anything from me, certainly not your pain. You waited a long time for Hector. It must have felt like a dream to finally see him in his cot with that white blanket tucked in around him.” He said softly, and Agnes smiled. Hector still slept with that blanket safely by his side. It had carried home, through long waking nights, through grief of losing his father and now, as a memory of all those things simply there if he wanted it. “You know, back home I think we call this the nesting phase. Preparing for a child, creating a home for it.”

Agnes took a few, deep breaths. “I just want this baby to have the same welcome into the world that Hector and Veronica did. And not be consumed by any of the fear I might pass--”

“We’ve consulted several experts, Agnes.” He fixed her with a look, needing her to hear him, to believe what he’d been trying to assure her of for the duration of her pregnancy so far. “They’ve all agreed that Dr Gascoigne was mistaken. Darling, the man retired because he couldn’t remember where he lived. It’s not without risk, but you’re under the best of care...”

“I know all that, Casp.” Agnes sighed, her hands resting on top of her protruding belly as she looked at him. “I’m just afraid is all. Hector felt like a miracle, and then Veronica felt like I was being tested. As if they hadn’t quite decided if I was worthy of two such gifts. She was so sick. I’m afraid to be tempting fate. To not appear grateful enough for what I already have.”

“Our little girl will arrive safely and she’ll be perfectly healthy. If she isn’t, then we will handle that too. I believe in the good.” She smiled through glassy eyes, eyes brimming with tears as he took her hand. She nodded, less in agreement and more to assure herself. He smiled the same warm, winning smile that had almost tempted her fate in a different way 8 years ago. Today, he’s a net of safety, always ready should she falter or need him to catch her.

She sighs a breath of relief, pretending to believe him has made her actually believe him a little bit, and she puts his hand on her belly. He always rewards her with a giddy, boyish smile. As if it’s his greatest dream come true, every single time. “You know, darling, you can still change your mind about the name, if it’s a girl. Pamela still thinks it’s a boy, and won’t hear otherwise. Blanche thinks we should choose a more neutral name, whatever that means. And Lotte made the suggestion just yesterday that we name it after some film star she’s taken a liking to, an American man. They all think we’re fools.”

“No, that’s our little girl in there.” Caspar felt a soft kick against his palm as he rested it next to her hands. “And _her_ name will be Ambrosine.”

“My mother would have been so happy to have grandchildren, perhaps especially one named in her honor. She was named after her great-grandmother, and I remember she told me she’d never met anyone else with that name.” She picked up the knitting needles, watched them carefully as she began to knit again, finding the pace that had been disturbed when he’d called her name. Knitting, to her, was like hearing music on the radio. Rhythmic, a dance with the needles and the thread as it created something out of merely woolen strands. 

“I can imagine.” His hands moved around her belly, feeling little movements against them as he played ‘hide and go seek’ with his unborn child. 

“She would have adored Hector and Veronica too. Spoiled them rotten. And she would have loved you. You know, she was always fascinated by America. She only knew it from books and newspaper articles of course...” Her voice trailed off a bit, suddenly lost in her own thoughts.

“Agnes,” He said, covering her hand with his again. “I’m happy here.”

Agnes caught herself, cleared her throat and looked at him again. “Caspar, I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to. Honey, this is home now. I came back here because I wanted to be here, to run my business as it should be run, not leave it the hands of others. My mother understands. She’s so thrilled about a grandchild she might just move here herself, if she could ever get my father to move his business overseas. You and the children are my family now, this house is our home, and all the people in it are my people.” He shuffled closer, gentle fingers touching her cheek with a smile. She leaned into it, tried to let it assure her as best it could. “We’ve all survived a war, Agnes, it’s an honor to be able to continue giving them a house to call their home. We’ll visit, surely, but we’ll always come back here. And it’s a big responsibility, you know, helping you raise the children in a way Hallam would have approved of.”

“Under the circumstances, I must choose to believe he would have been grateful.”

“I hope so.” He played with the lace collar on her shirt. Guilt seemed to be the last phase of grief that still lingered in Agnes’ mind. Guilt that she’d moved on. Guilt that the same empty void left by too many husbands and fathers during the war hadn’t found its way to 165 Eaton Place, despite the tragic death of Sir Hallam Holland three years earlier. That their home had instead been filled with light and laughter as they found their way out of the rubbles of war; memories spoken of with wistful longing, rather than intense pain. They had mourned, and allowed happiness back into their lives. Lovers had found each other, missed loved been given a second chance, and war-worn hearts slowly healed as everyone found their places again. “They’ll never want for anything, and you’ll tell them all about their father if they ever forget. And there are photographs of him around the house, so they’ll never forget his face.”

“Yes.” She said, with a relieved smile and touch of hope. 

“What are you knitting?”

“It’s a little romper suit. See?” She held it up, and he could see the traces of it clearly now, a soft yellow romper suit for his child to live in. It still seemed so impossible. “Blanche suggested it; supposedly it’s a terribly popular fashion for babies in the states. Her Victoria gets the magazines sent over.”

“You know, I do know it’s Blanche’s Victoria.”

“You weren’t living in this house when we found out about Blanche. It was so tawdry. Everyone treated her abominably, her nephew included. It was one of his greatest regrets. And I prefer saying ‘Her Victoria’, because it helps chip away at the memory of all those times she cried over love she could not have.” It sounded melancholy. Her voice lowered as she gently massaged the sore spot where a tiny foot insisted on kicking repeatedly. “Blanche seems strong, and she is, very much so. But she came to us with a missing piece of her heart that she knew she could never have back. And now she’s finally found someone to call her own, someone that is just hers. A love that’s true, even if they won’t be married. Even if we have to pretend she’s just your cousin. They’ll have a safe haven here, and I so treasure seeing them happy.”

“You really are the most extraordinary woman I’ve ever met. I’ve never met someone who runs a family so effortlessly, and you do it with such grace. It’s not me people run to with their questions or concerns, it’s you, even now, with this big belly in your way. You were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen the night we met, and you’re even more so now, with our daughter growing inside of you. Waiting so very impatiently to make her entrance into the world.”

“I do wish she’d hurry.” She said, tired and playfully exasperated. 

“She’ll come when she’s ready.” Caspar chuckled, and pressed a soft kiss to her hand.

“You’ve all given me a purpose, in your own little ways. The children gave me such hope, and meaning. Blanche gave me confidence. She so believed in me, even when I didn’t know yet what I was capable of. Pamela has taught me patience. And she’s so wonderful with the children. Lotte really helped open my eyes to the world. There was so much I didn’t know when Hallam took her in, and I’m ashamed to say I didn’t handle it well at all.” She looked at him, still a slight hint of embarrassment upon her face as she recalled Rachel and Lotte’s life-changing arrival into their lives years’ prior. “And you’ve given me a second chance. When Hallam died, we’d only just begun to heal what was broken. And then he was taken from us. You gave us a chance to breathe. You made the children laugh. You even managed to cheer up Pamela once or twice. You were such a wonderful friend to me, and to Blanche, to all of us here. Miss Buck adores you, Miss Brewer still credits you with taking over the job as housekeeper being so easy. As much as Miss Buck tries to inform her it was I that set the rules for this house. And Mrs. Thackery still refuses to make French crepes now that you’ve shown her how to make those flat little cakes. Even when I’ve explicitly asked her to.”

“Pancakes.” He corrected her lovingly. 

Upstairs, they’d blended a fair amount of customs together. Infusing British traditions with a certain American flair. Downstairs, Mrs. Thack still refused to entertain the idea. Save for the pancakes. Agnes had craved something one evening, many months ago now. Something she’d eaten once in Washington. She’d made every attempt to describe her cravings to an impatient Mrs. Thackery, before finally her own husband had stepped it, gathering ingredients despite massive protests from the Downstairs empress. Agnes had gulfed them down with a ferocious appetite, finally seeing in front of her the vision that had tortured her for days. Pancakes he had called them. American ones. Perhaps it was seeing Mrs. Landry so content that had endeared Mrs. Thack to make one allowance, just the one.

“Yes, those.” She smiled contently, and had to admit to herself that even she was coming around to them. She studied the little romper she’d created for her child. A few mistakes here and there, but the muted yellow creation finally looked somewhat ready. She took a healing breath as she held it up in front of the proud father-to-be. “Do you like it, Casp?”

“I love it.” He smiled, leaning to place a delicate peck on her temple, a soft kiss on her lips. “I think it’ll look wonderful on our little Ambrosine.”

“Yes. Yes, I think it shall.” As if on cue, as if she felt she had been patient long enough, Ambrosine Landry gave them her first notice of departure on her 30-hour-journey into the world.


End file.
